


Drive

by Builder



Series: Spiderverse [6]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Gen, Peter Parker and the terrible horrible no good very bad day, Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2019-01-26 22:17:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12567420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: When Peter's carsick on a long drive, Happy's, well...less than happy.





	Drive

**Author's Note:**

> This was a prompt for Tumblr (find me @Builder051).

For once, Peter’s less than thrilled to see Happy idling the shiny black SUV in the pickup loop outside school.  He has a headache his meager supply of ibuprofen doesn’t seem to be making a dent in, and lunch is sitting heavily on his stomach.  It’s one of the rare days when he’d rather trudge home for a nap than swing around the city.  But at least he _doesn’t_ have to swing around the city.  At least Mr. Stark’s sent a car for him.

“Hi, Happy,” Peter says as he opens the door to the backseat.

“You got time to drive upstate?” Happy asks.

“Yeah, yeah, I got time,” Peter says.  It’s not a lie. He has time.  He doesn’t have a lot of homework tonight.  He wants to work with Mr. Stark.  More than anything else.

But how hard would it be to say _you know, I don’t really feel up to it, how about tomorrow?_  Peter thinks about it.  Thinks about how that would be the smart thing to do.  But who’s he kidding?  He can’t say no to an afternoon in Mr. Stark’s lab.  He can work through a headache.  Probably.

Peter tosses his backpack into the car and climbs inside.  He puts on his seatbelt and grabs his phone, waiting while it connects to the vehicle’s privatewi-fi network.

On Instagram, @ironmanspotter has uploaded a series of photos and videos of Mr. Stark, or his suit at least, doing dive rolls off the Brooklyn Bridge. From what Peter can see in the grainy footage, it looks like the suit is angling left each time it turns sharply out of the aerial stunt, which probably means one boot’s propelling jet is stronger than the other.  Peter wonders if he’s going to be assisting with the task of fixing it.  He’d be ecstatic out of his mind to be able to lend a hand with a project like that; the prospect of taking a screwdriver to his mentor’s armor is…just, wow.

But then his head starts to throb in a manner that makes his stomach less than happy, and Peter has to look up from his phone and find the tree-lined horizon bobbing above the interstate.  He re-evaluates his goals and decides he’ll be ecstatic out of his mind just to make it to the lab in one piece.

Sweat begins to break out on Peter’s forehead, and he can taste the fries he ate hours ago edging into the back of his throat.  He presses his temple against the tinted window, hoping maybe the coolness will calm him down.  But now that the nausea’s started up, Peter knows well the only thing that’s going to stop it.  And he’s determined to last the rest of the drive before retreating off to some rarely-used bathroom in the Avengers facility to chuck up his stomach.

The rest of the drive should be about 40 minutes, if Peter’s sluggish brain can be trusted to remember anything correctly.  But he barely makes it 10 before the bottom half of his face threatens to flop into his lap and acidic saliva starts running between his back teeth.  Peter sucks in the slowest of slow, deep breaths through his nose.  The leather-like scent of the immaculately maintained car does nothing to appease his headache, and makes his throat clench tightly around rising bile.

He should say something.  It’s not that hard to say _excuse me, I don’t feel well, can we please stop?_  But even doing that much would require opening his mouth.  And they’re on the highway with nowhere to pull over.  And Happy has never been Peter’s biggest fan.

But he can’t just sit here either.  Peter can feel his stomach sloshing, his jaw trembling.  He’s not going to be able to do anything to stop it.  His entire face feels icy and boiling at the same time.  Sweat drips down his upper lip.   _Just say something._

Peter gets as far as, “Um,” when he can’t hold onto control any longer.  He presses his clammy palm over his mouth to stifle the first belching gag.  It’s no help, though, when his undigested lunch starts coming up, sending vomit dripping between his trembling fingers in long strings.

“Oh my god!  Kid!”  Happy’s shouting at him, looking at Peter hunching over the floorboards in the rear-view mirror.

Peter retches again, unable to control the spasms still bubbling upward through his body.

Happy takes the next exit and spins the car into a Burger King parking lot.  He throws Peter’s door open and yanks him out of the car.  Peter barely maintains his footing and sprays a slew of stringy fluid over his own shoes.

“Jesus Christ.  What am I supposed to do with you now?”  Happy’s pacing, scrolling through the contacts in his phone.

“Sorry,” Peter apologizes, hardly able to hear the sound of his cracking voice over the ruckus of his wild heartbeat.  He tries to wipe sick off his chin, but his hands are so trashed it doesn’t make much of a difference.

“Why are you calling me?”  The voice is unmistakably Mr. Stark, who Happy’s evidently called and put on speaker.

Peter’s face burns with embarrassment.

“He just puked all over my car!” Happy shouts, his temples going red with passionate frustration.

“Ok, ew,” Mr. Stark says.  “Take him back home until he…decontaminates.”

“You want me to drive him almost an hour back into the city with vomit all over my backseat?!”

“Um.  Yeah?  I got bots to clean it.”  Mr. Stark replies.  “Where are you now?”

Happy rattles off the exit number and adds, “In a goddamn fast food parking lot.”  Peter loses the battle with controlling his breath and lurches forward to bring up another pitiful wave.  “He’s still at it!” Happy yells.

“Happy,” Mr. Stark says, his all-business tone returning.  “Buy him a soda.  And take him home.”

“Really?  Really!”

“Buy him a soda.  Take him home.  Ok, bye.”  Mr. Stark hangs up.

Happy stands there, shaking and seething for a moment.

“I’m really, really sorry,” Peter chokes, spitting mucousy saliva onto the ground.

“You…hm…” Happy starts, his face still contorted.  “What…kind of soda do you want?”


End file.
